Monday, January 31, 2011

I Want Your Asses!

It's the last day of January. Tomorrow's February—notable not only for being the shortest month of the year, but for containing my natal day (next weekend, if you're looking to shower me with presents and spankings). And also, toward the end, for being the month I started this blog, a year ago.

I know! Time flies. So to celebrate, I want your asses. All of 'em. Pony up, boys. And what's more, I want to share your asses.

Well, yes. I want them in that way too. But for now, I want photos.

One of the bloggers I admire very much is the inestimable Mr. Gloryholejunkie, whose frank and ribald take on the cultures of sex and public sex are always fascinating and arousing reads. On his blog he has started a feature in which he has invited readers to send in photos of their dicks. He then shares them with his readership.

I know a good thing when I see one. I am blatantly borrowing Mr. Gloryholejunkie's idea and turning it around: I propose, on a periodic basis, to use my blog as a showcase for your glorious asses. All that you need do is send 'em to me. Photos, that is. Of your asses. Your beautiful, big, round asses. I want my email box overflowing with asses. I want it to smell like your asses when you're done shoving your asses in there. I want to be overwhelmed with ass. I want Yahoo to send me administrative mail telling me that my email box has too much ass in it.

If you'd like to participate—and you should—send an email to the address in the sidebar. Put the words 'MY ASS' somewhere in the subject line. And then give me the name you'd like me to use when I post them in my blog—or if you'd like to remain anonymous, tell me that, too.

Because yes, I'll be posting the names or handles you give me along with your asses, and a few appreciative comments about each. And so will the readers looking at them. Right, guys?

Q: My ass is too pimply/fat/skinny to appear in such an enticing and drool-worthy project.

A: No, it's not. All asses are welcome. Unkind comments on anyone's ass will not be tolerated.

Q: Do you want just my ass? Or my ass and my dick? Or my ass and my face? Do you want a shot of my hole? Or just my butt cheeks? 

A: The details are totally up to you. Share with my readers whatever you're comfortable sharing.

Q: In what formats should I submit my ass photos?

A: JPGs are nice. But I can work with most formats.

Q: What if I know of a pretty ass I want to show you, but it's not mine?

A: Nooooooo. I want to see and share your ass. Not some porn stars. Unless you are a porn star, of course. (Don't laugh. I have several porn star followers.)

Q: What if I want you to take the photos of my ass?

A: I am totally down for it. (Was there any doubt? Really?)

Please note: When you send in a photo or photos for the project, you are affirming that you are at least 18 years of age and that the photo or photos you are submitting may be published in the very special episodes in which I share your asses with the world.

Of course, if you just want to send me butt pics privately, you can do that too. But where's the fun in that?

I'm hoping we can celebrate my birthday with a good ol' round of ass. So SEND ME YOUR ASS. Get crackin'.

So to speak.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: The Home-Cooked Edition

The dinner: sliced pomelo, salad green, pan-seared salmon, and roasted asparagus. The chef: not me!

When I'm with my loved ones, I'm usually the cook of the house. I'm a fairly decent home chef who prefers to know what ingredients are going into his meals—which also means I have a tendency to bake things like bagels, breads, and cakes as well, or make my own yogurt and salsa, or to keep a constant supply of home-simmered black beans in the fridge. One isn't going to leave my table feeling like one's leaving the Top Chef set, by any means, but at least the meal will usually have been tasty, and largely from scratch.

Last night, however, Spencer decided he wanted to cook his first dinner for me, in my kitchen. He arrived home with an armful of groceries and very sweetly proceeded to use every baking dish, bowl, pan, cutting board, knife, and colander I own to make a dinner just for me. I had to step in and butcher the fish for him and place it in the pan because he's frightened of raw flesh (I know . . . my mind was overflowing with things to say there, too), and I did dishes all along the way because I didn't want to have to face a mound of them at the evening's end, but over the course of the two and a half hours we ate the various courses, I got to sit back and have them served. Just because someone wanted to take care of me.

It was a luxury. And very sweet.

It's Sunday, and you know what that means: I catch up on more of your questions from, the service that allows you to ask me anonymous questions—whether they're advice, or a personal query, or something that's just on your mind. I'll answer anything that's not repetitive or invasive, so long as you remember one simple rule: just because it's anonymous doesn't give you license to be a dick to me. That's not too much to ask, is it?

How old were you when you realized your cock was turning out a lot bigger than average?
I was about seven and a half inches when I was 14. That would be when I glanced down between my legs while sucking dick in a marathon session at the park and realized that I was already longer than most of the grown men I was blowing, and bigger than anyone in my family as well.

At that age my dick was still a lot thinner, though. I didn't get to about my full size until I was sixteen.

Have you ever told someone you love him, but got the wrong answer back? What did he say?
I once knew a guy who was incredibly kind to me when my father was in the hospital for a series of operations. Not only did we have fairly intense sex, but he had a lot of good advice about my dad's health as well.

When my dad was released a couple of weeks later, I wrote my friend a letter thanking him for his kindness and telling him that I loved him for getting me through a bad time. I made clear that I meant a grateful, friendship kind of love. However, the letter apparently freaked him out so badly that he refused to talk to me ever again. When I ran across him three or four years later, he pretended not to know me.

It's a shame that the word 'love' is a burden to so many people, especially when it's offered in the spirit of admiration.

Did you read the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan?
I did not. Why do you ask?

I take it you are a bi married guy - what's the secret to staying discreet and still playing safely and having fun?
Take me as you will. I think the secret to maintaining a relationship while playing with others is simply to be considerate of your primary partner. Sneaking around, missing family events or meals in the name of sex, lying sloppily--they're all going to make your life a misery.

Sex is recreational. In your list of priorities, treat it as such.

So your wife isn't the least bit suspicious about your activities? *not jinxing you*
This question makes a couple of assumptions, one of them being that any activities in which I indulge are dishonest, and therefore worthy of suspicion.

You know how the popular saying goes about what happens when you assume something.

Do you think people on twitter that you follow and that follow you back really pay attention to you or do you think they just follow to have followers?
I don't think there's any right or wrong way to use Twitter. There are some ways that are more obnoxious than others--using bots to spam people who mention a product you sell, for example, or trying to lure people into joining sex sites through provocative avatars while providing little commentary or content.

But people who follow merely for the hope of accumulating a lot of followers? They have every right to bolster their ego that way. I'm glad it doesn't take much to make them happy.

You've made some gamer references. What have you played, and what are you still into?
I am a huge World of Warcraft player, and have been for about five years. It's that game into which I've sunk more gaming time than any other. I have played a lot of consoles over the years, starting with the Atari 2600 I had in middle and high school and moving through various Nintendo products to the current day.

However, I haven't spent much time with console games in the last couple of years. I tend to find my attention span is suited more toward games I can play in short, satisfying bursts--Puzzle Quest 2, with which I am currently obsessed, is an example.

I'm also very fond of board and strategy games; Carcassonne is a favorite. I play it on my iPad a lot, along with Reiner Knizia's Medici and Ra.

my boyfriend is younger and very dominant and has fucked me over 3000 times over the years as this has gone on I've got more and more compliant and passive to the point he does what he wants no matter how humiliating do all bottoms go like this?
No, they don't. But there's nothing wrong with you or your relationship because you have.

Have you ever considered adapting your writings for publication, either in book form or on a forum like "Nifty Erotic Stories"?
I don't really believe that submitting my writings to Nifty is much of a step up in credibility, to be honest.

I have considered collecting entries into book form. However, there's a fundamental difference between journal entries and a book format; overcoming the challenge of how to adapt one into the other is what keeps me from pursuing it actively.

In retrospect, was your whoring around in your youth something that was good for you growing up, or was it overall impact your life in a negative way?
I really have little to say that's negative about my youthful experiences. My teenaged sluttiness helped me mature in ways that was far beyond most of my peers, and gave me a perspective into human behavior that I wouldn't have ordinarily experienced. It helped me get a rational and sentiment-free view of sex that's served me well.

In short, it made me the man I am today, and I wouldn't change that for the world.

I'm aware that some people look askance at my youthful exploits and prefer to see it in terms of 'abuse' or 'molestation.' I would never apply those words to any of my own experiences, however, and I resent it when other people attempt to impose that kind of narrative over my own.

So, have you tried cialis? Man, that stuff makes me sore - a noted side effect, but I think it has more to do with all the pounding you have to do with the hardon it gives you.. for 36 hours.
I tried Viagra once and didn't really notice a difference in erection persistence or strength. I am fortunate not to have problems in that area, so far. I haven't tried any other erection-related pharmaceuticals.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Open Forum Friday: Scars

I was an ugly kid.

Now, I’m not making any great claims for myself as an adult when it comes to my looks, but for the most part, I’m fairly content with how things have turned out. In my series of Earl memoirs lately, though, I’ve been talking about my early and mid-teens a lot, and I don’t want to leave readers with the impression I was a beautiful young twink. Nope. I was a painfully skinny kid whose ribs one could count beneath his skin. My hair was bright blond, but greasy and long enough to scrape my chin. I wore very thick horn-rimmed glasses. Because I was so tall—always a head above my classmates all the way from second grade through high school—I had a tendency to hunch my shoulders when I was among my peers. My clothes weren’t the best.

And oh, I felt the pain. Every crack about my greasy hair I took to heart. When a girl named Sonja told me I had ‘little bitty piggy eyes,’ I spent hours in the mirror widening my lids as far as they could go to see if I could minimize the effect. I internalized comments about my oily skin, my big nose, my lack of a chin, my skinniness, my total, unloveable ugliness. And I believed every word.

Sure, it was the nineteen-seventies. All kids were hideous during the nineteen-seventies. It’s as if we were all shooting for Leif Garrett and falling short somewhere around Danny Bonaduce. When I graduated high school, I underwent a transformation of sorts. I got contact lenses instead of glasses. I bought a new wardrobe. I cut my hair shorter. I took several strides away from that ugly kid I was in my teens.

Now, during all those years I kept hearing hurtful, ugly things about myself, men were giving me compliments that were quite the opposite. Earl himself used to say the nicest things about my eyes—how translucent and shifting were their colors, and how deep they seemed. Men loved my body and told me so, in profane detail while they fucked me. I had strangers on the streets cruising me, pawing me, taking me to their cars, even paying me. I discounted every single one of their compliments, stated or implied. The only things about my appearance I could hear and believe were those that hurt me to the core.

What's crazy is that these days, when I look back at photographs of me in college, I don't see any of those things I held true about my appearance. I see a bright-faced kid, smooth and pretty and young, with a smile that could light up a room. I was my own worst judge.

Last night I was sitting across from Spencer in a restaurant, having our first frank talk about his scars. Spencer has had specific areas of his body afflicted with patches of cysts, in the past. Surgery has removed them, but it’s left small areas of scarring behind. White traceries, so faint they’re difficult to see unless they’re pointed out. There’s a few on one arm, several on the outside of a leg, and one on his cheek that I can make out only in very bright light, up close. He told me about the visits to his doctor that started in his early teens, the injections, the therapies, the recuperations. He talked about the mortification he felt—that he feels—each morning in the mirror.

When I look at Spencer, I see his strong jaw, his beautiful bone structure. I don’t see scarring. I see a forehead that radiates strength and serenity, and comical eyebrows that with one quirk can make me burst into laughter. I see the dimples in his smile, and the cleft in his chin, and a handsome face that makes men and women alike turn their heads when he enters a room. He sees blemishes, and imperfections, and the spots where knife has met flesh. It’s not just the scars he dislikes about himself. I hold him against me when we fuck and feel his narrow hips and his flat stomach; he mumbles about an imaginary spare tire. I see beautiful brown eyes that sparkle with life; he sees big bloodshot dog eyes. Another telling behavior: he sneezes, says “Excuse me,” and then in the same breath but a different, booming voice retorts, “There’s no excuse for you!”

I asked him why he always follows up his ‘excuse mes’ with those words. He told me they were his father’s standard retort when he was a kid, and that the voice was his father’s as well.

I tried to express my feelings to him, last night, as we ate. “You are not your scars,” I told him. “You just aren’t. I don’t think anyone sees it. Not the way you do. You are not your imaginary extra weight. You aren't your miserable thirteen-year-old self.'”

“Well, that's how I see myself,” he retorted. “And it sickens me.”

“There is so much more to you than those things,” I told him. “It seems to me such heavy baggage to carry, the shame for something you can’t control or change. They doesn’t matter.”

But as we argued, I realized how stubborn he is. He can’t give up that vision of hideousness that never existed, not yet. And I’m not enough to change the way he sees himself. He made my heart ache. I have an instinct to fix things when I see people I love in trouble, and these invisible wounds run too deep to mend.

I know so many beautiful, extraordinary people who don’t believe in their own gifts. It seems as if they’re stuck in some time warp, seeing visions and hearing voices of people who no longer exist in their lives, saying things that no longer have any relevance. They hear whispers that they’re overweight, or ugly, or not good enough; they stare at their reflections and instead of handsome, capable men and women, they see ungainly, pimply teenagers.

I don’t exempt myself from any of my own accusations. I yesterday looked in the mirror and found myself tugging at the corners of my lids and murmuring, “Piggy eyes.”

So for today and the weekend I’m opening up the comments section to you guys. What childhood or teenaged slights have stuck with you throughout your life, whether or not they’re really who you are as an adult? And how have you overcome them, if you have? Why do you think we cling to the bad things we hear about ourselves, and ignore the good? I’m curious to see if we have any commonalities between us.

Thursday, January 27, 2011


This is tough for me to write about: I failed last night.

I’d had a tough day. The winter days have really begun to grind me down and to make me feel housebound and logy. I’ve been feeling particularly anxious about my living situation, and feeling neither one place nor another. I’ve had an upswing in crazy associated with the blog—name-calling, diva fits, and outright rudeness—with which it’s been difficult to cope.

Over my first-world problems I’d managed to get myself into one of those fretting states of mind that I took into the bedroom with Spencer. I was tired, and cranky, and cliched as it sounds, had something of a headache. And to put it bluntly, it just wasn’t working for me.

Oh, it wasn’t the hydraulics that weren’t working. I don’t usually have an issue with that, knock wood. No, it was more the problem of me not being really into the moment. I was thinking more about the problems rattling around in my head than I was the beautiful boy between my legs, surrendering his butt to me. And he could tell. “We don’t have to fuck tonight, you know,” he at last muttered, somewhere down there.

And I thought to myself, Oh, fuck. It shows.

My head was even more crowded in the moments after. Nothing contributes more to feelings of pointlessness than having one’s sexual inadequacies highlighted during the act. I sighed, rolled onto my back, and breathed deeply as I tried to keep everything at bay.

As I lay there, fretting and mentally flagellating myself, it occurred to me that maybe I could do something other than thinking about myself. I did, after all, have a young man in my bed who had needs of his own. And if I wasn’t totally in the mood to use his hole, there were plenty of other things I could do.

So I did.

I lifted his head to mine and kissed him deeply. My right hand traveled over his broad chest, stroked his hairy stomach, squeezed his still-erect dick. When I pressed my lips to his nipples, my troubles began to recede from mind; by the time I had him groaning and writhing on the bed from scraping my teeth and tongue across those sensitive red buds, I’d more or less forgotten them completely.

I love to kiss Spencer’s body. I love the smell of him, the clean taste of his skin, the give of his stomach, the hardness of his hips. I love letting my lips trail from neck to navel, and of burying my face in his thick, spiky pubes. And I really love impaling my throat on his dick.

Spencer’s dick has a point to it; his head is more of a rounded triangle than a mushroom. The shaft grows gradually as my lips travel down, stretching them widest around the base. I can take all but the last half-inch without trouble. Struggling for that last tiny measurement, however, is half the fun.

Spencer gasps and moans as I suck him. This time is different from the other nights I’ve gone down on him, somehow. Usually I can pleasure him for long periods of time—and I do—but it’s pleasure for pleasure’s sake, not with a goal in mind. This time, though, he’s directing me in a way he hasn’t before. He’s thrusting inside my mouth deeper and deeper; his hand is holding the back of my neck to keep it still. My eyes water. I try to keep my throat open as his cock’s head invades it. He’s not a big pre-cummer for the most part, but now he’s dripping. I can taste it on the back of my tongue, stronger and saltier by the moment.

I was pretty sure this might be going somewhere we hadn’t gone before. I felt Spencer’s hand tapping lightly at the back of my neck as I picked up the pace slightly. It felt like the slightest of taps, as if he was asleep and dribbling a basketball in his dreams. I adjusted my lips and continued to move my mouth up and down his shaft. Sometimes my fingers would lightly stroke his hairy nuts. Sometimes I’d curl my thumb and forefinger around his hard meat and let the tight circle follow the path of my mouth.

Spencer’s breathing grew faster, shallower. I could see his stomach ripple with motion as he began to pant. The phantom tapping at the back of my head increased, and I moved with it, letting him direct the pace. I wanted to do this for him. I wanted him this way. And most of all, I wanted his seed in my mouth.

It came shortly after. “Oh my god,” he panted. “Oh my god.” He said the words over and over, like a mantra, or perhaps a prayer. Then his hips shot upward, nailing his dick deep in my throat as he shot his load. I received the sperm onto my tongue and kept my mouth on his meat until his spasms subsided, and then a moment more.

Only when he was completely relaxed did I withdraw and swallow the payload. It was strong in flavor, pungent, and slightly sweet. Most importantly, it was his essence, and I’d gotten it in my mouth. Finally.

“Thank you,” I said, easing myself to his side. I had a smile on my face, large and genuine, untouched by any of the day’s cares.

His voice was soft and distant. “Would you believe me if I told you that no one has ever sucked me off completely before?”

“I would,” I murmured back. “You told me no one had, the second day I knew you.”

“No one has,” he said, dreamily. “Until you. Just now.”

“I was there,” I reminded him.

And I was. I really had been there. Present. Willing. Thinking of nothing else but him, and his pleasure, and what he wanted.

Sometimes out of failure grow the seeds of success.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Earl's Parties

(This entry is a companion of sorts to The Bank Book.)

Every few months, Earl and Jim would invite twenty or so guys to their home for a good old-fashioned orgy. Earl’s parties usually took place on Saturdays in the late afternoons; they’d last until darkness had fallen, and often until the morning beyond. Usually I’d start preparing for the event a few days in advance by telling my parents that one of my friends had invited me over to his place for dinner and an overnighter of Dungeons and Dragons and the midnight scary movie. By the time Saturday rolled around, they’d made plans for a night to themselves and would happily wave me off on my bike, knapsack on my back.

Ah, D&D. The best game I never played in my teens. There was a dungeon. Just no dragons, no nerds, and no twenty-sided dice.

At Earl’s house I’d lock my bike in his back yard, then allow him to welcome me and escort me to up to his bedroom. That was my domain, during the parties. Mostly after the men started arriving for the action, the more reluctant ones would sit around the sectional in the living room stroking themselves while watching others go at it. For the more experienced party-goers there was action around the sling in the basement, or fucking on the furniture. Men sometimes did piss play in the bathrooms, particularly in the downstairs bath with the old claw-footed tube. At night, in good weather, the action could move onto the screened back porch.

When Jim wasn’t too busy smoking pot and bending over for any man who’d have him, he’d be in the kitchen making sandwiches and shoving trays of pre-made hot appetizers into the oven. There was booze and beer in the fridge. There were drugs on the living room coffee table.

And there were a couple of boys. I knew that the kid to whom Jim would occasionally refer as ‘the other one’ usually arrived later in the evening for the parties, and got installed for the evening in the tiny closet known as Jim’s bedroom. That shithole was Baltic Avenue to my Boardwalk. I worked the master bedroom with its king-sized bed and heavy draperies, its private bathroom and own stereo system (complete with an 8-track player) and color television. An old glass mayonnaise jar sat on the bureau by the door, into which guests would stuff tens and twenties for me as they entered or left.

Earl made clear during parties that his bedroom was a substance-free zone. No pot, no poppers, no booze, no coke, no nothing. I didn’t indulge in them at all, and Earl made sure no one else would either, in my presence.

I would do anything else, though. That’s why I was there. For a long string of hours men would come into the room—usually singly, sometimes in pairs or small groups—drop their bills into the jar, and then grope to find me in the near-darkness, waiting, willing. I just did at the parties what I’d be doing with other men what I’d be doing at the park or in public restrooms anyway. Except I was doing those deeds in Earl’s bed, my head on the pillow where he slept, my naked body sliding between and over the same sheets that covered his at night. I would spend hours in an erotic, dozy haze, holes stretched wide, body covered and dripping with fluids. From time to time, Earl would enter the bedroom, shoo out any guys there, and make sure I ate something, or drink from my bottle of water.

And then, late in the evening when all the men downstairs had either visited or were beginning to go home or collapse into sleepy heaps, Earl would come into his room, lock the door, and stay there for good. He always had one load saved for me, at least; he took great pleasure at being the last one inside me, of planting the last load of seed in my hole that night. The other men varied in their approaches to fucking. Some were rough—some were timid and frightened I’d scamper away. Earl knew how I liked to be used, though. He’d take his pleasure without hesitation, without a second thought. If he came quickly on those nights, it was I think because he knew exactly how many dicks I’d had inside me that day, and loved thinking about me servicing all those strange men.

Then, when it was over, he’d turn gentle. He’d help me up on my wobbling legs and hold me until I was confident I could walk, then lead me into the bathroom. Like a mother with a baby, he’d run the tub water until it was warm but not too hot, and stand me in it. With a washcloth and soap, he’d rub away the scents the men had left on my body. He’d splash water against my raw ass and clean out the semen lingering there. He’d wash my hair and towel dry it with the rest of me, and then pour out a paper cup of Listerine so I could rise my mouth. Once he was sure I was steady and on my feet again, he’d lead me back to the bed and lay me down. I’d fall asleep in his arms. Although he wouldn’t spend the entire night with me, I liked knowing he was there when I fell asleep.

In the early morning I’d bike home on legs that felt like rubber, my mind practicing the lies I’d tell if my parents asked how my dungeoneering happened to go.

The next time I’d visit Earl's house, he’d give me an envelope fat with half the money. It wasn’t until after the second party that he asked me what I’d done with it. “You’re not spending it all, are you?” he asked. I told him that no, my parents would notice if I was spending a lot of cash, and that I’d put the envelopes into a drawer in my bedroom. He looked at me without speaking for a long moment, until finally he said, “And what happens if your mom or dad pulls open that drawer and finds it?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. He and I both knew there would be a lot of questions if such a thing happened—questions that couldn’t be easily evaded with even the most clever lies. I didn’t have a job. I mowed lawns and babysat, but not enough to earn that amount of money.

Earl didn’t have to argue much to convince me I was endangering our friendship by letting the cash sit around my parents’ house. “That other kid is going to smoke his way through his cash,” he said. “But you’re not like him. You’re a smart young man. You should be smart with the money. Right?” When I nodded, not really certain what he expected of me, he asked, “It could really help you out in the future if you kept the money somewhere that could earn you interest. How about we go to a bank and I’ll help you open a savings account?”

We picked a branch where my parents didn’t have any business. After that first visit together, when I received my passbook for the new account, we had a deal. When I’d work a party, I’d immediately take the money Earl gave me to Southern Bank, keeping at most only ten dollars to supplement my allowance. Earl kept my passbook in a drawer in his own bedroom; though he never made a show of checking up on my accumulating deposits, I suspect he was pleased I at how diligently I set aside my ill-gotten gains for the future.

It was at the back of Earl’s drawer that the book remained, tucked away through the many month I enjoyed his company. It even remained there for a long while after the panicked time later, when I had to part company with him for good.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

You Might Think This Is Weird

This entry is from the vaults—2001, in fact. But as I'm tending to an injured Spencer today, I'm not going to have a chance to write anything original. It's new material to you guys, however.

Just don't think that 'yesterday' means yesterday, when in fact it refers to an afternoon a decade ago.

One of the things that makes me an easy-going lover is that nothing really shocks or offends me. I was an early bloomer, sexually. By seventeen I’d experienced more kinks than a geriatric’s joints in December. At slightly more than twice that age I thought there was very little I hadn’t done at least once.

Here it comes: However.

I’d been invited to one of  group sex thing party at the baths, yesterday afternoon. It was a nice low-key event in which there were never more than a dozen or so people present at any one time. Few enough people, in other words, that most of them were pairing off and retreating to private rooms rather than carrying on in every available corner, nook, cranny, and bathroom counter.

One of the people present was a man I’ve enjoyed several times over the past couple of years. I have a mild crush on him, to be honest. He’s about six foot four (and it’s rare that I meet people taller than me, even by a mere inch), blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, furry, muscular, and handsome as hell. He’s about twenty years older than me. His hair’s gray and his bristle-brush mustache is white. He’s got those gracefully aged, rugged good looks that most movie stars would envy. If I recall correctly, he’s a judge.

He spotted me instantly, and I was pleased he remembered my name. We went to a back room and began to make out. After a few minutes of foreplay, he rubbed my shoulders and leaned down to put his lips to my ear. In his deep, gravelly voice he growled, “So what do you want to do today?”

“I’m up for anything,” I told him.

He held me away from him. “Anything?” he asked seriously, as if making certain. “Really? Anything?”

There was a brief second when I had one of those okay, what am I getting myself into? warning flashes through my head. But when I thought through it, I felt pretty sure the guy wasn’t going to ask to crap on my face, or ask me to slice up his buttocks with a bowie knife, or put me in a noose. Just to give myself a potential out, though, I grinned invitingly and said, “What did you have in mind?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “You might think this is weird. I’d need you to go take a shower.” Ah, I thought to myself. He wants me to bottom. It has been a while—a long while, unfortunately—but I was game. “Get your hair really wet,” he added, his voice getting deep and lustful on the last two words.

The last little bit threw me into confusion. I had sudden visions of my having to perform a Flashdance-style routine while water flew in an arc from my wet and floppy hair. But I liked the guy, so I went to the shower and got my hair good and wet and went back to find him while I tried not to trample puddles of water through the place.

“Oh yeah!” he said, when he saw my head. He sat down on a chair and spread his legs. “Now get down on your knees and start sucking.” I obeyed, and watched what he was doing from the corners of my eyes as his dick grew harder and harder in my mouth. He reached into a little black bag, the kind that guys lug around to parties to keep their poppers and toys handy, and pulled out a big black bottle. He squirted some substance into his palm. “Can I?” he asked. I had no idea what was coming next. The slightly floral scent coming from his hand just confused me.

“Sure,” I said around a mouthful of cock.

His hands reached out and riffled through my hair. He started to shampoo me. That was his kink. He liked to run his hands through a guy’s soapy locks while the guy sucked him.

I enjoyed it a lot, actually. His fingers were strong and applied just the right amount of pressure in the right places. Being touched or massaged is something I enjoy even more than sex. He gave me a thorough scalp massage for the thirty minutes it lasted. The look of gratitude on his face afterwards would have been worth it even if I hadn’t been into it. I very much enjoy fulfilling other people’s fantasies or fetishes.

I hadn’t considered the consequences, though. Here I was afterwards sporting a head covered with lather, trying to make it through the halls of the bathhouse back to the showers without anyone noticing. Impossible. Instead of looking sheepish, I just strutted by, shoulders erect, as other men stared at me and at my cap of Vidal Sassoon foam and my little chin frosting of something else entirely.

I told a friend about it afterwards, and was disappointed not even to get an exclamation of surprise from him. “You’re not shocked?” I asked.



He quirked the corners of his mouth. “At you? No.”


“Look,” he said. “After some of the things you’ve done, no matter how oddball you think Shampoo Man sounds, trust me, he's pretty damned mild in comparison.”

He did admit my hair looked nice and shiny.

Monday, January 24, 2011

What He Wants

Spencer’s dick is bigger than mine. I’m under no illusion that I’ve got the biggest meat in any assembly of men, though I’ve usually got more than most—and more than enough to work with. Spencer’s longer than me by a good inch or so. The uppermost reaches of his scrotum begin higher on the shaft than mine do, so that from some angles, like the underside, it seems nowhere near as lengthy. But when he’s got his legs spread, and his dick pointing to the ceiling, and his head arched back and dug deeply into the pillows . . . yeah. It’s a big one.

We’re naked, and on the floor of the den, the carpet made pillowy even more by a fleece throw we’ve dragged down from the sofa. The sliding glass doors at the back of the house are uncurtained. Though the lights are low, anyone who happened to passing would see us embracing. The base of his spine is arched and raised from the floor. I’m able to slip my fingers beneath it. His big hands pull my hips harder against his own. In my childhood, my uncle used to call having sex the beast with two backs. It seemed an over-exotic allusion then, something archaic and quaint, the sort of Edwardian naughtiness whispered over cigars and port, away from the ladies.

But now I know what it means. Together we do form a beast, a writhing, squirming monster that moves across the floor in one direction and then another. The beast is hungry and seeks only its own satisfaction; it fills the air with ungodly cries and wordless sounds that would frighten the weak. Parts of it throb and pulse, angry, red. Others clutch and claw. Mouths open to devour. Eyes open, but they don’t see—not past the beast itself.

His dick is raw and pulsing, wet from the precum he drips. I feel it slide up from underneath my pelvis, and travel up my crack until it’s drooling at the base of my spine. The droplets of moisture cool there, making me shiver slightly. We kiss, savoring the sensation of our lips as they pull at the other’s.

Then his dick inches lower again. The head parts my crack. Instinctively, it burrows for my warmest part, and nudges against my hole. And there it rests for a moment.

When I feel his cock head swell, I almost pause completely. Is this what he wants?

All that fills my head for the moments following are the reasons why I shouldn’t. I didn’t clean out, inside. I’m not prepared. It’s been too long. I haven’t—I can’t—I’m not sure I could. That’s all it takes to fill my head with doubt, I realize. Nothing more than the sensation of his dick’s head, butting against me. He hasn’t done anything. Hasn’t asked me for anything. He’s just doing what feels good to him, in that moment.

I reach back, and wrap my fingers around his shaft. It swells. Beneath my hand it’s hot—hotter to the touch than any other part of his body. Gently, slowly, I rub the tip of his dick against my hole. He sighs, and shifts, and while he kisses me, his hips thrust up. Slightly. So, so slightly. Atop him, I rock forward and back to the swells and ebbs of his movements. His dick sweetly pulses against my entrance, icing it with his sticky fluids.

If this is what he wants, I will give it to him, I’ve decided.

I raise myself up enough to spit on my hand. I bring it down around his meat, getting it slick. His breath quickens; he thrusts hard between my fingers, splitting them further apart, splintering any resistance they might have. His dick batters against my pelvic bone, almost bruising it; again and again he bangs and thrusts, assaulting a spot an inch away from my hole. I only release him for another handful of saliva, which I spread on his inches until it’s slippery to the touch.

If this is what he wants, I’ll give it to him right there. And I half-wish he would.

His body jerks. Spasms wrack his frame. His jaw clenches, set and jutted like a rock shelf. I feel a spurt of juice first on my ass, and then running down my wrist. He shakes and nearly bucks me from atop him as he comes, his groans so loud that one of the cats runs from her nap on the nearby sofa.

When he’s done, I rub the cummy tip of his cock over my hole, and lower myself so that my head rests on his chest. It wasn’t what he wanted, that time.

But my mind can’t help but think about what might have been.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Sunday Morning Questions: Fudge Room Edition

I'm glad so many of you guys enjoyed my friend FelchingPisser's MAL diary yesterday. In answer to the universal question I kept getting in my mailbox, no, FelchingPisser doesn't have his own blog. That's why I invited him to guest write for mine.

He does have a lot of great encounters, though, so maybe we can persuade him to share his write-ups from time to time.

Today I'm collecting some of the past replies I've made on, the site where people can ask one anonymous (or not-so-anonymous) questions of a personal nature. I'm always up for some good questions, especially about my sex life or my views on sex and sexuality, which is the focus of this blog. I'll answer questions about anything, though, as long as they're not overly invasive, too repetitive, or outright abusive.

When you see a pic of a guy with a real big!!! dick up a guy's ass .. and the bottom's face is all distorted. Do you ever wonder whether he looks that way coz he loves it, or is in pain? :)
I usually hope it's a little of both.

A friend of mine (a theater director who I turned on to your blog) highly doubts that what you write it true. I argue that it is. Who is right? Of course artistic writing requires some "fudge room" I'm sure. But what percent is true? --Reality Lover
I don't make shit up for my blog. I write about my sex life. I change the names and a few details about my partners (occupations, identifying marks, that kind of thing) in order that they aren't readily identifiable. But that's the only fudging I do.

I'm always surprised how outraged I become when someone accuses me of lying in my blog. I take the allegations quite personally. If your friend wants to think I'm a liar, I suppose there's really no way I can stop him. But I pity anyone whose life is so narrow and constrained that my quite normal sex life seems like the stuff of fantastic fiction.

As a bi guy, I consider myself a fairly good top for a gal. i'd like to top a guy.. any suggestions/recommendations? I'd really like to please a guy with a tight hole, but I'm afraid I'll cum too quickly, but that's where my preferences are.
I think you'll find the solution fairly easy. Tops are in high demand. All you need to do is get onto a web site where you can display a photo of your dick, advertise yourself as a top, and you'll be pretty much flooded with offers from willing bottoms.

Out of fairness, I think it might be best to advertise yourself as a novice top looking to gain experience—that way, if there are any premature conclusions or awkwardness, shall we say, they'll be forewarned and you won't have to feel too badly about it. If you shoot too quickly, you'll gain friends if you stick around long enough to provide the bottoms with a second round.

There will be plenty of guys out there who'll want to take you on. I think you'll enjoy it just as much as fucking pussy.

Chuck Liddell is at your bedside. He's naked, ripped, musky. "I'm tied of pussy," he says. "I want to finger-fuck your asshole and suck your dick while I rub your tit and sit on your face." Do you let him?
I had to Google him. But who is going to say no to that request? Not I.

This might be a stupid question, but here it goes. Does your wife know about your bisexuality? I assume she doesn't, but I do know plenty of women do not mind dating men who have been with other men before.
This is one of those questions from which I tend to veer, as it strikes a little close to my home life.

Many guys make the exact same assumption as you. To make that assumption, however, implies that at core, I'm duplicitous in my everyday behavior. To assume that I live my life that way is incorrect.

You have 789 questions answered thus far on here - planning anything special for #800? I'd try to make it a doozy but I can't think of much you haven't answered already.
Is it really that many? I didn't have a special question planned to mark the occasion . . . but as long as it's not a repeat of the one about vampires and African violets, I'm good with whatever comes along.

Name the top 5 twitter guys you have a crush on?
Oh, naming five would be unfair to the other three dozen I have crushes on. I will say that only one of them is a bona fide porn star, though.

If you weren't moving someplace particular and could move anywhere (but had to move somewhere!), where would you go?
If we're playing the game in which money is no object, I'd move somewhere completely different from where I am now. Somewhere like London. Or Australia. Or even San Francisco.

Glad someone has asked you to start contributing as a a writer. You are very, very good.
Why thank you. I'd enjoy more opportunities like the Anal Magazine one.

Did you ever get feedback from bottoms about what's doing it for them?
The good ones let me know, either explicitly or through other feedback like moaning and yelling, what's really working for them. That's probably what most frustrates me about the ones who simply lay there.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Our Far-Flung Correspondents: FelchingPisser Does MAL

One of my frequent commenters and readers of this blog is my buddy FelchingPisser. He's a friend in my real life as well, a demanding top guy who's made an appearance or two in my blog. Yes, we've nailed hole together. He's handsome, hung (he claims he's 'slightly bigger' than me, but he's being kind—he's much, much bigger) and insatiable once he gets going.

And he's one of the friends I knew was attending MAL last weekend. The account of the trip he sent me was so engaging, nasty, and hot, that I asked if I could share it with you guys. He consented. So for today's field trip, pack your bags and get ready to see what happened in D.C. through the eyes of one of the best guys I know.

The photos in the post are of him. Be sure to let him know in the comments how much you appreciate his diary—it's a scorcher.

I guess I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself. I’m another Great Lakes area, full service top. I’m slightly older, slightly taller, slightly thinner and, yeah, slightly bigger then the Breeder. While, the Breeder wrote about attending one of my gangbangs, I more often appear in this blog with a comment or two.

I wrote what follows as a way to keep track on my first Mid-Atlantic Leather (MAL) experience. I had often gone to CLAW, but never to DC for what any number of guys told me was the “Rolls Royce of leather events.” I sent it off to the Breeder daily. He suggested that his readers might be interested. I want to thank him for even thinking it was worth posting here...

This is not a writing competition to see if I can write better than what appears daily in this space. I know I’d lose. This is simply the chronicle of my weekend: How I went to DC…and had a fuckin’ blast…

MAL Day One: Thursday

“I’m sorry, sir. You‘re a pound and a half overweight.” I look down at my thin frame--I have never heard those words before in my life. “Your suitcase. If you can get that much out of it, you can check it for free.”

I take the case off the scale and start unzipping. Thank God I am checking in early at DTW and there is no line. “A pair of blue jeans often works,” the SouthWest clerk adds helpfully. I look. No surprise, really, about the weight. Leather chaps, jeans, camo pants, leather shirts, wrist restraints, harness, shoes, on and on. I remove the travel bag filled with the sundries I often take to play parties. Oops, get the lube out of there--no liquids. Ok, that should take care of the weight, be easier to carry than a pair of jeans and give the screeners something to talk about as they see the x-ray of the dildo I use to double fuck my boys…

“All set?

“All set.” The bag is back on the scale.

“Oh, very, good--you got it down to 44 and a half.”

An endless line for screening. And yes, I swear to God, my bag is backed up for a second look. Maybe the aging TSA agent really likes the idea of the tit clamps in there….

Two perfectly boring flights--only slightly enlivened by a cute attendant who would NOT smile at me--but kept looking at my bulge.

The most expensive cab ride ever--and I am at the hotel.

Check in--fast and smooth. And they actually have my name--surprising, since I had no part of the reservation process. Up to the third floor--and I am suddenly all but weak kneed. The elevator REEKS of poppers. Obviously, someone’s bottle has not survived the flight and has dripped through the luggage. Oh, does the Hyatt know what they are in store for?????!!!!

My first roommate arrives 2 and ½ hours after his projected time--glad I didn’t wait for him at Dulles where he suggested he could pick me up…Matt is a guy I met at CLAW in April. He gave me my first lesson in flogging. I then fucked him and pissed up his hole. He fed it back to me and we have kept in touch ever since. Short, billy-goateed, shaved head...leather is his life. A true leather man--his leather family takes precedence over anything. And he has a large, involved one. He was constantly at their beck and call during the first 24 hours. To the point that our appointed play time vanished. We’d agreed we’d play the first night then be free the rest of the weekend…play again if we felt the urge. But not now--well, quick---online to BBRT---where I had been turning down countless guys all afternoon ‘cuz of Matt. I just felt it--now I would get no one….No problem, as it turned out. I had the perfect opening to MAL…

HotCumLoads is taking loads on the 11th floor. He’d love to entertain. I walk in. This full, round, hairy ass is in the air as he is sucking a long slender cock, attached to a nicely developed, 40ish top sitting against the headboard. HotCumLoads is in his early 40’s, looks younger, has a great cock on him--which gets very hard as I strip and start to tongue his hole. “I’ve got three loads up there for you, Sir.” This turns both tops on more than I can express. We go for 90 minutes--taking turns up his hole--all three fighting to lick the cock clean when it pulls out--before the other one goes in. Spit, gob, ass to mouth, rimming of the other top--he LOVED my tongue down his throat, up his ass or on his cock. HotCumLoads repeatedly sits on my face--he can squeeze a little out each time…so I get an additional taste of some nameless man’s cum. It’s the silkiest ass I’ve had in ages. I cum first. I eat out a good portion of my load and snowball it to HotCumLoads. The other top leans in to get his share from our mouths. He fucks the boy as he kisses me and unloads in his ass. I clean his cock. HotCumLoads knows the drill. He sits on my face and makes the most erotic noises as I eat his ass out.

Spent, I head downstairs. Matt is wrapped around a sleeping guy who looks JUST LIKE Matt. He wakes, waves, pulls on jeans and carries the rest of his leather in a messy bundle out the door. We all fall asleep. Hello, Washington!!

MAL Day Two: Friday

Woke up early, dammit. Good bagel with egg and coffee. Food taken care of--I’m suddenly horny.

On BBRT. Only getting hit up by guys in the city--and I can’t entertain easily with the roommate. Where are all the guys in the hotel???? My email flashes.

“Hey.” It’s cumfilledbiker--sounds promising. “I want you to seed me.”


“I’m taking loads all day.”

“Got your first one yet?”

“Any minute. He’s on his way up.”

“Write me when you’re loaded.”

“You got it.”

15 minutes go by. It’s cumfilledbiker again. “Mission accomplished. Come on up. The door will be ajar, I‘ll be on the bed ass up.”

I go up to the 11th floor again. He’s almost across the hall from last night’s fuckfest. The door is ajar. He’s 40ish, dressed totally in leather riding gear--the real stuff, the kind that you wear on your bike not just in the playroom--his ass is up in the air as promised. And dripping cum out of his hole. I moan--not really aware I make a sound until I hear myself. Fully clothed, I kneel behind him. My tongue dart’s out--tasting more anonymous seed. My cock hurts, straining in my shorts. My shirt comes off while I eat, making more guttural sounds. I never get my pants off over my boots; just pull them down as I pause in lapping up the seed. I plunge in deep with my tongue---my trademark rimming technique. He gets vocal, making my cock even harder. I slap his ass with my hard cock.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “It’s huge. Fuck.”

“That’s what I’m gonna do.”

My cock glides halfway in with the residue of cum I’ve left.

His breath comes fast. “Shit”

“Take it.”

And he does.

After several minutes I pull my cock out slowly. My cock head is designed with that super flared helmet that pulls the seed out as I withdraw. I bend to lick it up. He pants. I eat…I roll him over and snow ball the load into his mouth. He’s now erect, his cock straining against his leather jock. I fuck him for awhile on his back--trying to see the eyes behind the aviator sunglasses. I continually stop, pull out my dick and eat the seed that drips out with it.

“I thought you were just gonna felch me. Fuck, that’s huge.”

“You want me to stop?”

“God, no….” the rest is lost as I hobble onto the bed and slap his mouth with my cum slicked cock.

It continues in the same way for a time--but he’s showing signs of exhaustion and I realize this is an appetizer--I’m not gonna get off.

“Okay, boy. Do something for me.”


“Email me after you get each load. Will you do that?”

“YES, Sir!”

I pull my self together and return to my just waking roommate. He tells me roomie number 2 will arrive this afternoon. Oh, joy.

My light blinks on BBRT.

It’s bbcumboy. “I just got in.’

“Welcome,” I type.

“I want you to be the first up my ass.”


He tells me a room number on the sixth floor.

“Cleaned out?” I ask--always wary.

“Give me ten minutes.”

I give him 30, telling him so, and head to the sixth floor.

He opens the door. The boy is young, with just a little extra weight, the remnants of a silly faux-hawk, but overall a delicious freshness. We kiss for maybe ten seconds, and he’s on his knees, undoing my pants. He gives good head. I reach down behind him and feel his hole. He whimpers. It’s a long process to get me all the way in. But it’s worth the time. I fuck him doggy for quite awhile, flip him, eventually he ends up riding my cock. He is careful not to blow fast. I relish young skin on my tongue, hand and cock.

“Daddy--do you want to get off?”

Wow, I might have--but the moment we talk about it, I am suddenly no where near blowing.

“Your profile says you like piss.”

I smile. “I love it.”

“I’ve only had one guy piss in my hole.”

“Then you’re gonna have another one.”

I flip him over so I am lying on top of him, balls deep. I want to watch his face. I will myself to piss. I can actually feel things in my cock shut down one function and get ready to do another.

“Here you go, boy.”

It starts slow.

“Oh, fuck….” His eyes glaze.

And I keep going. And going. I have no idea I have so much piss in me.

“Oh, my God!” His ass is now on fire--the piss raising the temperature of his butthole. “Shit, Daddy.”

I start to fuck in it, slowly. He groans…then we get all responsible and stop not to make a mess--oh for my playroom, dammit. He evacuates it all in the bathroom as I start to dress.

He comes back in the room, grinning. “That was so hot.” We agree to fuck at the party we both are going to tonight and I take my leave before his roommate arrives…

I have coffee and realize I could eat. I flick thru the quick connect ads on BBRT. There’s a gorgeous man saying he’s in the hotel near the host hotel. He’s built and beautiful--and I’m scared to make the first move. I ‘screw my courage to the sticking place’ and write. Bingo. He would love for me to be his inaugural load. YES!! Thank you Grandpa--I just know it’s your cock I inherited--and it opens so many doors…..

The Phoenix Park Hotel is very different from the Hyatt--relentless with “Colonial Charm.” Everything in it is old--and to be fair --I guess it is a historic building. TimberWolf opens the door. The pics don’t lie. Worked out, but not to the point of excess. Hairy in all the right places. And a nice guy. We go at it like animals. After the two sessions I know this is the one that will get me off. After a little initial sucking, I eat and fuck, eat and fuck, eat and fuck. Soon I feel it---and then he feels it, warm, sticky and I’m talking in tongues. And he’s a great kisser…


And I can’t get into my room. The new roommate is there. And he’s arguing with someone on the phone about his insurance or something. He’s a big bear. As I later learn…you can’t shut him up. He talks to fill the silence, saying little and repeats it and repeats it and…

I head down to the Vendor’s Mart. I look for a new harness but don’t see what I want. Nap time. Late dinner.

As I’m dressing for the orgy, Matt, roomie one, comes in with his Aussie look alike from last night. They strip down and Matt sits on the Aussie’s cock. He looks over at me. “I can take both of you on.” I go over and lick the cock as it’s entering his hole--the Aussie is a little amazed that the quiet guy is doing that. I fuck Matt’s face a little, straddling the Aussie, then decide that this is just not what I want. I leave them to it…

And the orgy…

148 guys had responded that they were coming. Yeah, right--but if a third of them show, it will be a good group--and that’s pretty much what happened. I would say about 50 guys trooped through the door, never more than 20 at one time. I stayed over three hours. I lost count of the number of asses I fucked--well over 30. The party was thrown by 4 black men, 2 tops, 2 bottoms, and I guess they are an MAL tradition. There were all types there, all ethnicities, leaning towards African Americans. The best players were: a totally hot Middle Eastern bottom, a hot young Black boy, one of the host tops with a super curved shaft and a piggy Hispanic. Both TimberWolf and bbcumboy were there. Hottest moment: five bottoms were ass up in a row on two beds with five tops filling the holes, then we moved to the next-- all the tops shifting down one--and then again--and then again--until we’d had the all the current available holes. I made sure to play with all four hosts--the main top loved me licking his cock straight from what ever hole he was fucking--and the bottom host, gapingffhole, who’d invited me, really loved me--calling me “one nasty man…” Um…yeah….

I did get off. But I’ll be damned if I know in who…

MAL Day Three: Saturday

Not too surprisingly, I took the morning off. I lolled around, wrote up some of Friday and then began to get ready. I was headed off to make my first porn. Weeks ago I had applied to the new porn studio (Bad Seed Media) run by model Chris Neal--the huge dicked star with more-tattoos-than-God--of Dick Wadd, TIM and countless others. I’d made the cut of the 200+ who applied. I walked out of the hotel in time to cab to Chris’ hotel across the Mall. In the Hyatt front driveway was an ambulance… ah, one more drug addled fag does too much Tina…(at the filming, the producer was getting texts from someone at the Hyatt saying that the Presidential Suite was under lock down for possession and Police were fingerprinting anyone who knocked on the door. That busted party was on the same floor, but the other end of the building from the one I went to on Friday—mine being drug free.)
I arrive slightly early, sit and begin to sweat. I call up to Chris’ room, closer to 1 o’clock. The producer, slightly older than I, meets me and takes me upstairs. He looks an academic type and proves to be, retired now, and the boyfriend of Chris. We did all the paper work proving I was legally in the country and (don’t laugh) of legal age. There is a hot little Hispanic boy who looks to be about 12, a cute young man of maybe 28. And the bottom: Jayson Park. I am thrilled….he’s a hot, no, HOT fucker. We strip. I suit up in leather as requested. FAR from being a gangbang—we’d been told 24 guys, Chris had whittled it down to 10, then just the 3 of us have shown up to top Jayson….ok, it could still be hot…With just three, the guy who has been helping with the sign in decides to play too--a slightly over weight, bookish type in his late 30’s. Also on hand is an observer (hotter than two of the players) who is hoping some day to start his own porn studio, and the director/cameraman, a short Hispanic--who really seemed to know what he was doing, but kept bowing to the judgment of the his boss, the ex-prof. And no Chris Neal. Well, he is filming for Dick Wadd…where I should have been…if I’d known about it…

We begin. The four of us ringing Jayson on the floor. He pays oral attention to all of our cocks…well, not the cute Hispanic‘s. He can’t get hard. Finally in broken English he makes is clear that he is not a top. Oh, boy….one down.

We begin filming again. Jason has us all hard. Well, almost. Now it’s the accountant’s turn to stop proceedings and say he can get hard if he eats some ass. He eats Jason’s. He eats the 28 year old. Nothing. Break is called. The accountant gets a phone call--he has to leave. Two down.

We go back to Jayson on all fours on the bed, me eating his ass, the cute 20 something boy, who has a luscious looking ass that I never get to taste, is in his mouth. I rear up and start to fuck. Jayson is taken aback at just how big I am. But he’s a trooper---and a pig bottom. I fuck standing, but in an odd, knee bent position since we are using a frigging hide-a-bed. After a bit--and making sure I do extra long strokes to show off the length of my dick, I slap his ass and motion for the 20 something to take his turn. But he can’t keep it hard once it’s near ass. 

“Nerves, guys. Sorry.” This goes on for a good twenty minutes. Jayson and I don’t really stop, but we’re just playing--he loves to suck. Another break is called. I’m afraid the kid will bail. I pull him aside. “I’m pretty sure I have some Viagra. You want it?”

“No! Well, yeah. Maybe I do.”

The producer/boyfriend chats us up for the “Making of” reel. I pray the big V will work. It mostly does. He can fuck, now, just not in very long stretches. We build up the end of the bed with towels to make it all easier. At his most rampant, we even manage a double fuck---and one that actually feels good to all concerned. Then Jayson starts to bleed. Not heavy. Just spotting. We stop. We take the double penetration again. Blood happens again. Stop and take it once more. This time, it’s been decided that I will cum first (Are they crazy!!!!) We roll out of a pretend double fuck. The young one goes into his mouth, I eat and plow and shoot, doing that good money shot of the first two squirts on his hole then plow it in. Jayson cleans my cock, making sexy noises. The boy starts to fuck, but wilts. They decide to reverse his cum shot…look like he just pulled out to cum. He jerks. And jerks. It happens--he’s able to push some in. Jason spins and has him in his mouth. I dive into Jason’s ass. My cock is still hard enough to enter him. Jayson gasps. “I’m pulling his cum out with it,” I snarl.

“Stick it in my mouth, Sir.”

And I do.

Some where in one of those breaks for blood cleanup, two more guys had arrived. Only one would go on camera. Seeing the director later, he said that that went fine, but I didn’t see it, even to felch. I was gone after 3 and half hours….I pray the editor is a wizard….

Late, late lunch, since I didn’t want to eat just before filming. I find the guys who work at The Leatherman with my brother. They greeted me as if they’d always known me. I describe a harness I’d seen at the big group session, something that I thought would fit my thinner frame. Cirtone, found it, put in on me, then said “no--we’ll do this” and pieced together a great looking harness from different ones lying about. He was dead on. I looked in the mirror and it is perfect. Just what I wanted--but didn‘t quite know it. And they would take no money from me. “You’re part of the family, now, too…” he said, kissing me. I will admit to tearing up a little as Cirtone hugged me again.

I am tired. I come upstairs and sack out. I hadn’t slept well, worrying a little about the filming--doing that dreaming that I’m not able to sleep thing. I wake up in time to do a quick gangbang hosted by RawTop of the infamous blog. Two bottoms, both blindfolded, taking all loads. One is a slightly full bodied, maybe mid 30’s guy. The other is none other than TimberWolf. His pic on RawTop’s blog is nice, but nothing as good as in his profile shots or as him in person. There is a group of three or five of us as I get there. I start on the ass of the guy I hadn’t done yet. Another awkward bed to fuck on. This one has a projecting board all along the side--my shins are still black and blue from hitting it repeatedly. The newbie loved my tongue. Amazingly, I really couldn’t taste load--even though I went in right after some guy blew one. We fuck for a while. I switch over. I wondered if my Canuck recognizes the rimming technique. I know he moans and yelps as I enter him. Some one else wants to jump into him, so I go back to the first guy. I pick up speed and blow a load--incredibly fast for me…but bed has begun sounding more entertaining.

As I was dressing, Jayson shows up (he and RawTop are FB’s). We hug, talk for a minute about the shoot and laugh a little. I walk out and the director is there in the corridor. He and I walk to the elevator. I ask how he thought it all had gone.

“Great. There is like 70 percent footage we can use. Usually we throw out about 50 percent. “

Well, well. I hope he knows what he’s talking about….

MAL Day Four: Sunday

A later start to the day, finally catching up with some sleep. After an omelet, I go back to the Vendors Mart: getting some poppers on sale, some porn for one of my boys, trying to find a good piss party outfit for another, saying goodbye to the Leatherman guys. As I am surveying the Mr. S display (and trying not to gasp at the prices) who should appear but Chris Neal. And his partner. And the director. And a couple of the guys from the Dick Wadd shoot. I introduce myself.

“Oh, so you’re Charles.” He goes on to tell me he’d heard about me from Jayson and his BF. “You two had a good connection, I hear.” We talk more. He wants me to keep in touch. I also learn the Dick Wadd shoot had been no walk in the park, either. Blood there too, from an over steroid-ed bottom. And not a little bit like ours, “scary amounts“ according to Chris…Oh, and he IS shorter than he appears on film…

Well, that meeting of course, sends blood racing to my cock. I go up to the room and get on line. I look at a gorgeous boy with a fabulous full shoulder tattoo, who is taking loads. So handsome that once again, I don’t write him. I look at others. My email flashes. It’s the gorgeous one--Pissboi2. “I want to make you happy and take your piss and offer you my many times fucked over hole.” I head out the door and up to his floor. He answers, wiping some jizz off his lip as he smiles at me. An older man is toweling his cock as I walk in. I go right to slapping his face with my instantly erect cock. The other guy sits down--dropping the towel, his eyes riveted to us. I tell him it’s fine to watch. In reading the sub boy’s profile, it had stated that he’s owned by a top who could not attend. The boy has been directed to let us do anything to him. He has a camera on his computer, so he can record all the action--so the top would know how well he did.

I start with lots of slightly forced oral. A finger in his mouth that he starts sucking, then two. I pull down, so I can add my cock. Before I get far, there is knock on the door. A bear of a man walks in. He’s there to have his piss drunk. PB has him fill a glass, which he chugs it. A hot leather cub has followed him in. He watches and pulls out a fat cock with a big PA. The bear sucks the cub to hardness as I penetrate PB, leaning him over the bed. The cub wants a turn. I step aside. He fucks him brutally. PB is moaning encouragement. The cub cums almost at once. He watches, his eyes glazed and shining, as I lay on the bed and have PB sit on my face. Heaven.

More guys are let in. One middle-aged guy just jerks. Another is a very hot 30 something man from somewhere in the Middle East, with a foreskin that won’t stop. PB and he have an instant connection. Soon all others are gone and it’s just the three of us. We trade off on PB’s hole. When the other top pulls out, I need to work overtime to suck all the foreskin clean after it’s been up PB’s incredibly self-lubricating butt. I bend him over, so I’m standing and he can still get the other top’s cock into his mouth. I slip into him yet again and feel my cock warn me of impending orgasm. Shit! I flood his guts with cum. I guess it’s a small load after the whole weekend of play. The other top gets up and grabs my shoulders and pushes me down on my back. PB has risen--standing on the bed--waiting to sit on my face.

“Eat your fucking load,” the top hisses. He swallows my overly sensitive cock as PB slowly lowers his dripping ass to my mouth. He’s facing the other top, and the seal of his generous bubble butt is complete--I can’t breathe, only open my mouth and accept my cum. Fuck, my nuts had been working overtime---it’s a huge load…mixed with his ass juice, the Mid-East guy’s precum, and likely the PA’d cub’s remains, too…I can do nothing but lie there and swallow gratefully. The other top has lost his erection. I can sense they are waiting for me to go so they can get back at it. I drag myself into my clothes and all but stumble out the door…

In some ways I could wish that was my last scene….but it wasn’t. And for the first and only time of the weekend, I have time wasters online. I’d waited until both roommates had left (around dinner time) and realized I could now entertain locals in my room. A couple in Maryland had been after me. I let them know. Great they say, leaving in a few. And they never budge off line. Now it’s getting late. (So many guys have left the hotel.) I go up to RawTop’s Sunday gangbang as an easy, quick solution. His new boys have flaked, but TimberWolf is there again and blindfolded. A guy ahead of me touches him--and the Canadian calls it quits. He’ been going, solo, for 2 1/2 hours of gangbanging and is sore. Back to my room. I find a boy taking loads….he is close to quitting. I zoom up to the 11th floor. His boyfriend meets me at the door and informs me he is done, whether or not the load taker thinks so.

I’m walking back to the elevator. And a man comes out of HotCumLoads room. I’d noticed him back online earlier….I go in, the door having been left ajar. He smiles--it widens as he places me. We both go at it as if we’d had no sex all weekend. Neither wants more than a quickie of what the other can give. The symmetry of the weekend is complete--I’m shooting my last load in my first ass of my first MAL.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Open Forum Friday: Naked, in a Box

Today’s open forum question is simple: What’s your earliest protosexual memory?

I’m not talking about remembering the first time you jacked off, or the first time you actually did the deed. I’m curious about what distant memories from childhood you might have of desires you couldn’t explain at the time, but which totally make sense now, in the context of what you learned about your sexuality since.

My earliest protosexual fantasies, for example, revolved around refrigerator boxes.

You remember refrigerator boxes, or course—or television boxes, or the cardboard containers in which large appliances arrived. Once divested of their contents, they were the ideal playthings for kids like me with active imaginations. I could take a large cardboard box and play with it for weeks. I’d color the outside with crayons and draw crude cityscapes across the flat sides, and even use pinking shears (and a lot of patience) to cut out small little windows for the skyscrapers I scrawled there. Inside, with the box flipped over and turned onto its opening, I’d have endless privacy and light enough to color, or read, or simply conceal myself from the world. I loved my cardboard hideaways.

When I started attending kindergarten at the age of five, I rode a yellow school bus to the church where it was held, in the very early mornings, and rode it back home after lunch. It was from my seat on the school bus that I started to notice something. Some of the kids in my classes had awfully cute daddies.

The bus didn’t make stops at corners in neighborhoods, the way it would when I attended public school later on. This particular bus went to the home of each and every pupil and picked them up. Typically, one of the kids’ parents would wait with him or her at the ends of their sidewalks or driveways, then help their child aboard, and wave until the bus was out of sight. Very quickly, I learned which houses had the absolute cutest dads.

I remember vividly that my heart would sometimes race at the sight of these men. There was one in particular, a young man who couldn’t have been any more than his mid-to-late twenties, blond, handsome in a square and clean-cut late nineteen-sixties way. He’d wait with his child with his sleeves rolled up, exposing a thick thatch of pale fur on his forearms. There were other daddies equally as cute, but he’s the one I still remember, vague as his image is.

And I remember having drowsy fantasies, on those mornings when I’d see these men, about being naked with them. He’d have on no clothing. I’d be stripped bare. And we’d both be together in the darkness of my refrigerator box, hidden and unseen by anyone else. Close together. Unavoidable. And. . . .

Well, I didn’t really know what came after the ‘and.’

I had urges, plainly. A few years later when I’d put two and two together and realized what penises were for, I almost immediately remembered the refrigerator box fantasies and wondered how I could’ve been so dumb, not to realize. I was too young to have the vocabulary of adult desire at that point, though; even if I’d had a rudimentary notion of how babies were made, I couldn’t have applied it at that point to anything I had between my legs, or the beauty I was already seeing in other kids’ daddies. All I knew is that I wanted to be naked with them, and close, and alone.

From what I’ve heard from people I’ve talked to about it, I’m not really alone. A hound dog friend of mine swears that his early days as a skirt chaser began when he used to attempt to see the behinds of his female classmates on the school playground, in kindergarten and first grade. He’s still something of an ass man today. I know of one young man whose childhood discovery of his dad’s porn collection stirred him into an awakening curiosity about sex in general that’s served him well.

So I’m opening the question to my readers—what’s your earliest proto-sexual memory? That is, those sexual impulses you had, but might have been too young to recognize for what they were?

Don’t be shy. They couldn’t be any sillier than refrigerator boxes.

Thursday, January 20, 2011


Earl’s house was a classic southern three-story home, large and sporting deep raised porches that afforded plenty of shade in the summer. It was set in a quiet neighborhood populated by doctors, professors, ministers, and other upper-middle class professionals, and the cars more likely to be sitting in the driveways were expensive imports than anything domestic. In front of Earl’s house, however, parked next to his Volvo, was a ratty old Volkswagen Beetle. Bumper stickers littered its rear, indicating that the driver had once visited Dutch Village and Carowinds. The Beetle once had been lime green, but when I first saw it, in the late nineteen-seventies, one of the doors had been replaced in a shade of sky blue, and the whole thing was etched in rust.

The car belonged to Jim, Earl’s lover. I met Jim fairly early on in my training. I was on my back with my hands roped together and hooked to one of the slats in the headboard while Earl was assaulting my hole when a younger man I hadn’t seen before loped into the room. He wore ratty jeans, a pair of flip-flops, and a much-distressed pink polo shirt. “Who’s that?” he asked.

Earl told him my name without so much as breaking his pace. I couldn’t introduce myself, because I was gagged at the time. “Jim lives here with me,” he explained, which was about as close as he ever came to admitting that they were long-time lovers. They’d been living together since Jim had turned eighteen, I found out later.

“Hmmm,” said Jim, looking me over. He approached the bed. “Not much to look at, but I guess he knows how to take it.”

I wasn’t inclined much to like Jim after that. In my teen years, both he and Earl fell into that group of grown-ups of such an advanced age that seemed out of reach, almost impossible to attain. In reality, he must have been all of about thirty, and perhaps fifteen years Earl’s junior. He was a very juvenile thirty. Though his hair was thinning and his looks rapidly devolving from youthful to weedy, I often felt (and acted) older than he.

While he sat on the bed’s corner, watching Earl manhandle my hole so hard that he was bringing tears to my eyes, Jim dug into his jeans pocket and withdrew a rolled-up joint. He grabbed a lighter from the bedside table and flicked it into life. “Don’t,” Earl warned him.

“What?” Jim asked, instantly resentful. “It’s my first today.”

“Not in front of the boy,” Earl warned him. There was a stern, parental tone to his voice.

“Oh please.” Jim’s sallow skin wrinkled as his nose curled in disdain. “The kid knows what grass is.”

“I don’t want him going home smelling like it.” Earl’s words gave me no small measure of relief. My parents would have castrated me if I’d gone home stinking of weed.

“I can do it in front of the other one,” Jim argued. Apparently Earl had another boy that he used in addition to me; I’d been vaguely aware of it before, but Jim had confirmed it. I noticed that he obeyed Earl and stuck the unlit joint back into his pocket. He threw, rather than tossed, the lighter back onto the table.

“They are very different,” Earl said. The entire time he’d been talking, he kept fucking away with no discernible change in the rigidity of his hard-on. “This one’s special.” If he had another boy, at least he knew how to make me feel good about it.

“Special education?” Jim watched for a little bit while gnawing on his thumbnail. Helen Keller could have told that he hated me. “He might be young and pretty, but I’ll take someone with experience any day,” he said, completely contradicting what he’d said about me, earlier. He stood up and stalked toward the door. “I’ll be in my room.”

The polite fiction known as Jim’s bedroom lay on the home’s top story—a tiny, tiny closet with little more than a twin bed and untidy piles of both Jim’s unwashed laundry and well-used porn magazines. It was cold in the winter, and scorching in the summer. Jim slept in Earl’s bed every night, but the little room gave him something to crab about, and feel martyred over. “I guess I’ll be in my garret,” he’d bitch, when he’d flounce into the house and find Earl working me over. “Feel free to let me know when you’re done with your little trick. If I can hear you all the way up there.”

Jim resented me. That was obvious. Occasionally he’d join in with Earl and fuck my ass or mouth with his medium-sized dick that was more often soft than erect; most of the time, though, he’d attempt to sabotage the sex in some passive-aggressive manner. He’d walk into the bedroom with a cigarette in his mouth, bearing a large basket of clean laundry that he’d sort right next to us on the bed. When Earl might be fucking me in the sling in his basement, Jim would decide that the time had come to pull out the boxes in which they stored Christmas decorations, in order to make sure they had enough lights for the season . . . three months away. If Earl and I were fucking and making out in the den, on the sofa, Jim would walk in with a pad and pencil, sit down with his legs crossed, and ask Earl to help him with the grocery list.

I disliked being alone with him. If Earl had to leave the room to answer the telephone in the middle of a group session that involved Jim, I’d have to be on guard; Jim would be sure to attempt to bite or pinch or bruise me in some way the moment I was unguarded. If I left my clothes in the kitchen or living room when I entered the house, while I was upstairs with Earl, Jim would be sure to blow the smoke from his joints all over them. There were afternoons I had to resort to a lot of tricky measures to prevent my parents from smelling the weed. And not only would I have to hide Jim’s welts and red marks from my family, but I had to explain them away to Earl as well.

And the entire time I’d be over there, I’d have to put up with Jim’s catty comments. “I think your other one is a better fuck,” he’d say, as I was on my way out. Or, “I don’t know how you can put up with that sour little face of his.” Or, “The kid’s so skinny—it’s like fucking a sack of bones.” I’d hear Earl’s voice raised in warning, and know they were going to fight the moment I was out of earshot. They fought a lot, those two.

Jim had a snippy temper and an envious nature. He was a jealous nuisance who, I realize now, had out-aged his position as Earl’s boy and was resentful of anyone taking his place. His life consisted of a part-time job at a record store, pot, porn magazines, masturbation, and housekeeping. The limited scope of his sphere, I had an inkling even then, must sometimes have driven him mad. To watch his lover save his passion for someone like me—an outsider, a scrap of a kid whose only things to offer were a tight ass and his youth—had turned him bitter.

I got that, even as a kid. Some part of me sympathized with it, which is why I never said anything to Earl about the marks Jim tried to leave on my body.

Nuisance he might have been, but from the first I didn’t think that Jim meant me any serious harm. He wasn’t a danger to me.

Not for another couple of years, anyway.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011


“I hope your house never sells.” He says it without petulance, without any of that whininess of a restless child unwilling to turn off the lights and go to sleep. The words are flat and matter-of-fact. “I hope everyone hates your house. I hope your stinky house never sells. Then you’ll have to stay here forever.”

Okay, maybe that last part sounds a little bit petulant. And the way he takes a pillow from the sofa and tosses it onto the floor, as if the sloppiness of a single cushion on the floor might scare off potential customers, is a little puerile. This is the same Spencer, however, who a little over an hour ago helped me put some final cleaning touches on the place before we went out to dinner during the house showing. He’s the one who’d rearranged the sofa cushions in a more attractive presentation than I’d ever managed. If he wanted to mess them up a little after strangers had trooped through my house, it was his prerogative.

There’s stuff I have to do after every house showing. I have to turn off the lights in the basement and close the door to my studio. I have to check the locks on the back doors, since the agents and the potential buyers they’re showing around have a tendency—unwitting or not—to leave them undone, which has made me paranoid about home invasions. I check for running sinks and open cabinets on the first floor, and then hunt for the pets to be sure they’re all right on the second. Upstairs, I turn off the lights that are making my home a beacon on my darkened street, pat the cat that’s hiding beneath the blankets, and take a moment to kick off my shoes and the thick sweater I’ve been wearing.

He joins me in the darkness of my bedroom. His hands glide beneath my armpits; I feel his hot breath on my neck and the warmth of his body against mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“There’s no need to apologize,” I tell him. There isn’t—not for an outburst so minor, nor for wishing our time together was more permanent. He didn’t say anything I haven’t thought to myself, more than once.

“It’s just that—”

I stop him by turning around and pressing my mouth to his. He doesn’t need to say the words. I already know.

There’s a fresh towel I’d stowed beneath the bed earlier that afternoon, when I’d learned that Spencer was planning to give himself a deep cleaning. I use my foot to slide it out, bend down to pick it up, and spread it out onto the bed before I gently settle him onto it. He sighs as I undress him, slowly, and deliberately. I fold his clothing before I place it all, neatly stacked, onto the floor. His dick, large and hard, points in the direction of his left nipple; his balls hang low, almost to the mattress.

He is so beautiful.

I kneel over him as we kiss. My spit-slick fingers are already prodding at his hole. Involuntarily his knees rise, taking his muscular dancer’s legs into the air. Slowly, inch by inch, they straight until they’re pointing at the wall behind his head. He hooks his toes on the underside of my headboard, ceding full access of his hole to me.

I still crave the taste of him, even though I know it better than anything else. I’ve carried that scent, the remnants of the taste, on my beard around my mouth for hours at a time. I’ve smelled it the mornings after we’ve rolled out of bed and he’s brushed his teeth and gone off to one of his jobs. Glorious as it is when it lingers, it’s even better when I can dive in and enjoy it to its fullest, and to make it mine. He gasps for long minutes as I eat and bite at his hole, lifting it up and out. He’s doing it so that I can munch more vigorously, so that I can gnaw at his hole and sate my hunger.

Spencer smells like soap and face wash and the cologne he wears, all at once. I could detect those aromas blindfolded in an exotic market and know he was near me, instantly. If I could bottle that scent, I would. I’d bathe in it.

He gasps when I lower his legs, turn him over and settle, crossed-legged, beside his body. His chest expands and deflates as I pull his legs apart. From the bedside drawer I pull out the tub of Crisco, which I settle at the back of his knee. My index and middle finger dip into the cool, slick grease and withdraw a glob that I deposit directly onto his hole. He gasps at its low temperature, and moans as I work the tips of of my fingers, around, around, in smooth, slow swirls. It’s like I’m icing a cake.

I’m almost reluctant to try this again. The first time I fisted Spencer we both had an enjoyable time. The second time was ill-fated. He’d had difficulties hosing himself out, that afternoon. I’d left on the lights, which made him self-conscious. He’d put on some music I found distracting. Neither of us were really feeling the mood. He limped into the bathroom after feeling ashamed and embarrassed, and I was mortified to think I’d hurt him.

This time, though, I’ve turned the lights off, so that we’re lit by nothing but starlight. His iPod sits in my clock radio, playing something low and sexy. He wants my hand inside him, and I want to be there.

Two fingers. Three. Four. Slowly I open him up, applying more grease whenever I feel the slightest resistance. My hand resembles a bird’s beak, long, pointed, and conical, as I work all my fingers and my thumb into his slick, warm opening. Spencer moves in slow motion, his arms clawing helplessly at the pillows and sheets as his hips gyrate. It almost looks as if he’s swimming at an impossibly gradual speed, just enough to keep his head over water, but not quite enough to escape the threat of drowning.

And he’s drowning now—in waves of sensation and in pure pleasure. Every rasp of his breath, every groan, every cry betrays his need. His hands blindly scrabble for the other bedside drawer, where his bottle of poppers lies. But then he thinks better of it and closes the drawer. He doesn’t need it. My knuckles stretch his outer ring to the widest point . . . and then I’m in.

“Oh god,” he cries. “Oh god.” When I say he’s crying, I mean exactly that. My hand becomes a ball, a fist that’s tight and compact inside his ass. I lean down gently to kiss the lowest point of his spine. And my free hand strokes his hair, calming and reassuring him. When my fingers trail over his face, I can feel the tears, as hot and wet as the hole I’m inside. “I want you,” he moans.

My curled fingers twist slightly, making him groan. Then I do what I know he loves—I piston my arm in and out of his hole, slightly, gently. It’s not moving any more than a quarter of an inch, back and forth. It’s scarcely more than a vibration, really—and it causes his body to react with almost violent pleasure. I can feel from the inside how hard he is. His muscles contract; the prostate bumping against my knuckles presses hard against me.

He’s still talking. “I want your dick inside me. I want your hand,” he begs. “I want you inside me so deep. I want all of you inside me. I want you to fucking live inside my hole.” His lips kiss my hand, over and over. “I need this!”

“I’m here,” I whisper to him. “You’re getting exactly what you need.”

For long, long minutes I keep up the in-and-out motion. Occasionally I vary it with twisting, or simply resting my arm and expanding my fist so that it grows in size before collapsing again on itself. He loves all these things, and lets me know. Through words. Through guttural sounds. Through the grinding of his pelvis into the towel. And by backing onto my wrist, trying to accommodate more of me.

Gradually we turn him onto his side, so that he can masturbate while I’m inside him. He seems reluctant to let the experience end—and I’d be happy to accommodate him for as long as he needs. His dick demands attention, however. As he beats it, his ass spasms. The contractions are so strong that I half-worry he might pinch off my hand below the wrist, or shatter the bones in my hands. When he clamps down, it feels as if he might reduce my knuckles to splinters and dust.

I gasp in something close to pain when he comes. My forearm feels as if it might break as jet after jet of semen erupts from his dick and flies into the air. Gradually, though, slowly the spasms subside. He loosens up again, and I start to withdraw.

I feel his hands on my arm, stopping me. “I don’t want you to go,” he whispers.

He’s not talking about me vacating his hole. “I know,” I tell him, smoothing down his hair. “I know.”

For now, though, I leave my hand inside him so that he can feel the connection. I’m not going anywhere, just yet.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Dogstar's Prize

I announced last week that my reader Dogstar was the lucky winner of the contest I held to celebrate the addition of my four hundredth follower. The lucky chap and I conferred, and we agreed I'd keep his prize over the weekend—a pair of my Jockey shorts covered with several of my loads, inside and out—so I could pump a few more coatings of seed onto them.

Anything for my readers, right?

Since many of you pervs asked, I thought I'd share the end results with you today.

Congratulations, Dogstar! You'll be getting your package in a very few days.

Monday, January 17, 2011


Acceptance. That’s what I learned from Earl.

It’s a simple concept—an easy word to swallow, sweet on the lips and light on the tongue. Acceptance.

I’d taken lessons in it without knowing from the first time I let a man pull down my pants and flip me onto the mattress. I’d had tutoring in it, kneeling on the sticky floors of the park and library restrooms, and from the dusks I’d spent crouched in the darkest corners of picnic shelters, letting grown hands pull my head onto dicks belonging to men whose faces I did not know and often would never see. I’d tasted it when I’d plant my mouth or my ass against a hole in a partition and take whatever came through.

Earl honed those rudimentary lessons. He blindfolded me, cuffed me, gagged me. He plugged me with toys and dick. I would bike home with faint red marks around my wrists one day, dripping with cum from both holes the next, and with reddened cheeks from the walloping my ass had taken the day after that. I knew that on the days I found a leather dog collar on the kitchen table when I entered Earl’s house through his back door, I was to put it on and remove it again only when I was leaving, a few hours later.

But mostly I learned it the day Earl took me into the depths below his house. Into his basement.

It was perhaps six weeks after I’d met Earl that we took that trip together. His home wasn’t that far from mine—perhaps a mile or a mile and a half on my bike—and I had a standing invitation to stop by two or three times a week on the days Earl was home from work, and on Saturday afternoons. I remember walking into the kitchen and seeing him sprawled in a chair, shirtless, hairy chest exposed, arms crossed in a way that made his chest seem even larger and more muscular than it already was. He wore nothing but a pair of 501s with the top button undone. Our relationship was fresh enough at that point that I can remember being taken aback at the sexy visual of him. My pulse quickened at the sight of his fur descending in a trail beneath the denim hanging from his hips. Something about his big bare feet propped on the kitchen table made my dick shift in my shorts.

Usually Earl didn’t meet me this way; I would have to search through the house to find him either in his office off the living room, or watching television in the den, or sometimes up in his bedroom relaxing. Today, though, I could tell he had something in mind for me, and I trembled with mingled excitement and apprehension of what that could be.

The collar lay on the table. I noticed it immediately. Once my clothes were in a pile on the floor, I attempted to fasten the holes in the thick leather through the hooks. My hands were shaking enough to make my progress slow, though. Earl noticed. “Come here, kiddo,” he said in a low voice. When I approached, he took the collar from me and fixed it to my neck, fastening it a notch tighter than I would have myself. The leather pressed tight on my adam’s apple, but it didn’t choke me. I thought of adjusting it myself, then rejected the notion. If Earl wanted it that tight, he wanted it that tight.


He stood up when he was finished, and ruffled his fingers through my long blond hair. “I don’t think you’ve seen the basement, yet,” he said. His fingers reached out and grabbed the top of my head as he might a basketball. He turned me in the direction of the hallway, and began to steer me into its shadowy length. “I think it’s time.”

I indeed hadn’t visited the basement. Or thought about it, to tell you the truth. Like my parents’ basement, it lay down a staircase across from a coat closet. My parents had a finished basement of gleaming wood paneling and tile, however. Earl’s cellar, I could tell from the moment he pried open the door and toggled a switch to flip on a cobwebbed, naked light bulb hanging from a spare fixture, was more along the lines of the kind of stock movie set constructed for a climactic scene in a serial killer’s home. I licked my lips at the sight of the stark-edged shadows the light bulb cast below, and blinked at the wooden staircase that looked as if it might fall through at any step, but I didn’t say anything or pull away when Earl piloted my steps down, down, into the musty-smelling depths.

The natural cool of the cellar was a pleasant relief from the hot Virginia weather, but there wasn’t much else to make it seem welcoming. The floor was concrete, though area rugs covered portions of it to make it easier to stand or kneel on for longer periods of time. A toilet sat out in the open in the room’s far corner; a sink and a pre-fabricated shower stall with no curtain or door were next to it. There were a couple of wooden chairs along the wall, and on the other side of a series of studs, the house’s furnace, but it was otherwise unfurnished.

Save, that is, for what looked like a swing made out of leather and metal that hung from chains, in the room’s center.

I’d never seen a sling before. I didn’t know what they were. All the fucking I’d done had been in toilet stalls and over urinals, or clinging to trees in the woods or face-down in the brush in the parks. I’d been fucked in beds and dark corners and on sofas and easy chairs. I had no conception that things such as slings existed, however; I didn’t have a notion that anyone would make furniture specifically for sex.

Earl mumbled something about his boyfriend, Jim, fucking around with the chains again, and left me to watch as he made some adjustments to the sling’s height. When it met his satisfaction, he turned to me once more. “Come,” he commanded.

I obeyed without question. I still didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew better than to ask. I’d learn the way I’d learned all else—by doing.

Earl put his hands on my sides. “Ups-a-daisy,” he said as he lifted me up. With my assistance, he settled me into the leather seat. Tall as I was for my age, I weighed next to nothing, but still the sling swung back and forth in a wobbly and alarming manner. Earl steadied me, then lay me back. When my center of gravity was lower, I felt more secure. “You need this,” he murmured, retrieving a small cushion of sorts from one of the chairs. He tucked it below my neck.

I felt awkward in the contraption. My legs were hanging uselessly off the sides; the leather edges were cutting into the flesh, and the metal chains were cold. He grabbed my hairy calves, one after the other, and hooked ankles through leather straps hanging from the chains. With my heels hooked in the air, I felt more comfortable.

I also felt more exposed. If I hadn’t a clear notion of the sling’s purpose until that point, I did the moment I found my ass hanging off the edge of of the leather, exposed by my spread and anchored legs. I’d been restrained several times by this point—to Earl’s bed, to various pieces of furniture, and to Earl’s favorite improvised device, my legs strapped and separated onto a sawed-off broomstick. This was a different beast entirely. I was equally immobile and helpless, my ass was made as available as possible, but I wasn’t really restrained. My hands were free, though Earl ordered me to hang onto the chains nearest my head and not let go. My ankles were in straps, but I could have gotten them free if I wanted.

Only I didn’t care to. I accepted my helpless state. And as I relaxed into it, I began to enjoy it.

Which is not to say that Earl fucked me gently in that sling. Gentle fucking wasn’t its purpose. He lubed up and opened me all at once, making me cry out as my eyes and ass prickled and stung. As he often said, he liked for me to feel it. The sensations of being sling-banged were different. Unlike a picnic table or a toilet seat, I wasn’t cramped into an uncomfortable position or pinned to a hard uncomfortable surface while a stranger grunted into me. I didn’t find my head slamming into a brick wall. I didn’t have to worry about adjusting the angle of my hips while feeling like I was losing my balance on a mattress. All I had to do was lie there, experience the fuck, and accept what Earl was giving me. All I needed to do was enjoy the rocking motion of the sling, the slap of his balls against my ass, the pain of his dick stretching me wide, and the sounds of him vaulting closer and closer to his first orgasm.

Sights, when he allowed me. Smells. Sounds, certainly. But mostly feelings, the sharp, scarlet pains, the dull aches, the almost unbearable hardnesses of my dick and the sensations he’d produce with his stabbing and prodding dick, his wandering hands, his mouth, his teeth. Sensation at its purest, unfettered from care and worry. That’s what I felt that day.

Acceptance has its own, unique reward in these situations. Freedom. The freedom not to have to worry about giving the top what he wants—he’s getting what he wants. He’s making the decisions, adjusting the equipment as he desires. He’s setting the pace, calling the shots. All a young bottom has to do is consent, accept, and then reap the rewards. Resistance and fear lead to their own personal prisons; acceptance of the now, of the what’s-happening, are the paths to that freedom. The realization of what Earl was trying to teach me in that basement came to me as I lay in that sling, immobile and presented for use. It seemed very Zen at that time. Very grown-up, even advanced.

And it was a lesson I remembered every time Earl had a task for me in the future, whether it was taking the men he direct me to, or the toys he selected. When he told me to open up, I learned not to care whether what was coming was made of latex or fashioned in flesh, whether it was old or young or from a smooth-bodied stud or coming from something covered entirely with fur, whether it was white or black or something in between.

I didn’t have to make those decisions. I didn’t have to say yes or no.

All I had to do was accept. In that choice lay all the enjoyment I needed.